Nada

17

Groaning Over Spilled Milk

The sun rose and everything fell. Alright, maybe that’s a bit of an exaggeration. I spilled my bowl of cereal and milk, but still. I mean what kind of 15-year-old has the energy to clean up a spill AND repour their breakfast into a bowl at 4 AM. I barely had the energy to wake up in the first place. Even my younger sister, Alex, could only let out a small groan as opposed to her usual shrieks as the spilled milk reached her thin, pale arms. My mother herself was leaning on the fridge, half-asleep, with her golden locks in a poufy mess. I got up with a groan. My sister gave me a disgusted look and groaned at my groan. My father groaned at her groan, and my mother groaned as she realized that she would eventually have to give up her love affair with the fridge. We were such zombies. None of us had ever gotten up earlier than 7 AM.
Within twenty minutes my father somehow managed to shuffle us on out of the house in our vermillion red, little compact car. We were the only people driving at that hour. No let me correct that. We were the only people up at that hour. Yes, sure, there was the drunk man over there screaming about the world’s end, but he’d eventually collapse on a rock and go back to sleep. We, however, had a long day ahead of us.
You see, three weeks ago my father had been fired from his job as a fireman (ironic to you, yes. Humorous to us, no) because of a budget cut that had created a need to reduce the amount of people working in the department. My father did all that he could to find another occupation, but it seemed like nobody was hiring. We definitely couldn’t afford our house relying solely on my mother’s salary as a florist. The solution, of course, to this dilemma was to leave nice, suburban Long Island and move to the city to live in some unsanitary, cramped apartment. My parents felt like this was the best option since we could now live in a cheaper, more affordable home, while also being around an area where my dad would have an easier time finding a job. But get this. I would be sharing a room with my sister. Wonderful. Absolutely wonderful. There’s nothing more delightful to the ears of a 15-year-old boy than to hear he would be spending the next few years of his life sharing the same room with an annoying little 9-year-old brat. You may as well lock me up in prison with a bunch of dangerous, deranged criminals. At least their methods of internally driving me insane wouldn’t involve screaming at me to play Barbies or yelling at me to put on a dress and be Princess Bethany the Wondrous.
By five thirty we had arrived in a bleak, dirty street lined with rows of old apartments, so short that you wouldn’t believe the great city of skyscrapers had produced these at one point. The building we were to live in was only five stories, and it was painted a dull grey color. There was no elevator, and (lucky us) our home was on the fifth floor. We all groaned unanimously. My dad opened up the car trunk and shoved some luggage into each of our hands. The moving men would gradually bring the rest of our larger belongings from our old home to here over the course of the upcoming week. Alex, of course, was the only one exempt from carrying luggage and she gave me a smug little look about it. I gave her a little kick in response, and of course my dad noticed so he threw another bag on top of the two I was already carrying. I (as you probably predicted) groaned. Alex seemed to harness the energy of the world from that small triumph and skipped merrily to the fifth floor. It took the rest of us a good 15 minutes to lug ourselves and the hefts we were carrying up the five flights. By the time I reached the top floor I was more sweat than flesh. My hair (which I had somehow actually managed the energy this morning to style into some sort of slicked-back, pompadour) had popped back out into my crazy mane.
“Ahahahahaha! And you’re the captain of the soccer team?” My sister laughed, bending over and gripping her stomach in response to the sight of me dripping in a pool of sweat.
“Cut-it, or I swear to god the next tour Virgil will give of the Inferno will be in our room,” I growled between clenched teeth. She didn’t have to get any of that to realize I was threatening her with pure fury. She quickly straightened herself up and looked at the door instead. It was chipped and all splintery, and on it was a small, little, teeny, tiny spider, barely the size of half her pinky nail. No wait, I have a better analogy: barely the size of her brain. Alex gave a little screech and backed away.
“Hey Alex… could you grab the key… from my… pocket and open the… door please?” My dad asked between huffs and puffs.
“Whyyyyyyy??” My sister whined.
“Well, your… mother, Sam, and I… don’t exactly have… our hands free… at the moment,” my dad said grasping for every breath he could.
“But there’s a spider!!!” My sister screamed. We all gave her a look that told her that if she didn’t open that door soon, a spider would be the least of her problems. My sister groaned (hey maybe it’s genetics?) as she grabbed the keys from my dad’s pocket and fumbled with them until she unlocked the door. She then just stood there, doing absolutely nothing but stare blankly at the door. I’m pretty sure something must have clicked at that point in her little 9-year-old mind that this was to actually be our home for a long time, and that we were about to give up everything we had ever known as familiar and enter into a world of change. She looked absolutely terrified. But then again, she’s pretty stupid and small-minded. She was probably still obsessing over the spider.
“Would you hurry up and open the door?” I pleaded angrily. My arms were killing me. At this rate, not only would everything (in terms of the luggage) fall down but the sun itself would set and our story would end with two things crashing down as opposed to one. And hey you know what, maybe my leg would accidentally spasm out and kick Alex and have her fall down too.
“Yes, please, Alex. We’re dying over here,” my mother chipped in, clearly annoyed and in pain over the fact that in her slumberous state that morning she had slipped into heels. Alex stared at the door handle and slowly turned the knob.